


I'd Do Anything (Even You)

by bloodspatter



Category: 13 Reasons Why (TV)
Genre: Angst, Cheating, Clay is not doing well, Cuddles, Grief/Mourning, Hand Jobs, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Nightmares, Not Season/Series 02 Compliant, Post-Season/Series 01, Pre-Relationship, Sharing a Bed, Smut, So much angst, Sorry Brad, Tony is a self-sacrificing fool, Tony needs to reconsider his priorities maybe, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2021-01-03 09:41:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21177326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodspatter/pseuds/bloodspatter
Summary: Tony would do anything for Clay. That’s a universal constant. Especially since Hannah, Tony would do anything to keep Clay safe, do anything he asks. But ‘anything’ doesn’t really come with rules. Or boundaries.Tony crosses a few lines looking after Clay.





	I'd Do Anything (Even You)

**Author's Note:**

> I've only seen season 1 so idk what's been happening in in canon and fandom. I just wanted some angsty feelings and a bit of smut mixed in. This isn't tagged underage but like, these characters are still in HS so if that's something that upsets you, don't read it. Also, it's addressed in the fic but I want to make it clear, this isn't a healthy dynamic, but they're working on it. Don't @ me with hate for that please. Otherwise, enjoy.

Tony gets the call just after 2am. He answers the phone blindly; there’s no question of who it could be. “Clay? Everything alright?”

_ Sniffle. “Yeah, why wo-why wouldn’t I be?” _

Tony scrubs a hand over his weary face. “Because you’re calling me at,” he checks the old-school alarm clock on his bedside table, “2:21am. On a school night.”

Silence.

“Clay? You need me to come over?”

_ “No, I just…” _ the anguish cackles down the line,  _ “I don’t know. I just don’t want to be alone right now.” _

“I’ll be there soon. 10 minutes max,” he says, searching the room for a pair of jeans.

Tony cards a hand through his hair, still a little damp from the shower he had before bed. His body just wants to crawl back under his blankets and go back to sleep, but no, Clay needs him, and that's enough to drag him out of his room. 

His dad lurks by the front door, wrapped in his olive-green dressing gown. The keys to Tony’s Mustang clink in his calloused hand. “Tony.” Always a man of few words. “Where you going,  _ mijo _ ?”

“Dad-”

“You’re not going to that Brad boy’s house, are you?”

Tony rubs the back of his neck. “A friend of mine- they’re not having a good night. I want to be there for them.”

His dad tosses him the keys in a jangling arc. Tony makes it halfway out the door before his dad speaks up. “That Hannah girl’s got you scared.”

Tony nods, lips pressed tightly, and heads out into the night.

* * *

Clay’s shivering on the curb by the time Tony pulls up. He cranks up the heating as Clay slips inside. The boy sends him a whispering kind of smile, and that’s all the acknowledgement Tony gets for a good half-hour.

He feels like a walking, talking cliché tonight. “You wanna talk about it?”

Clay’s eyes don’t stray from the window.

Tony shrugs, “We don’t have to talk about it.”

His passenger gives no sign of hearing him. “Why do you like old things?” Clay asks, tracing the door paneling with ghostly fingertips. “The car, your jacket, tapes, Brad…”

“Brad’s like 6 months older than me.”

“He looks like Justin Trudeau,” Clay mutters to the streetlights.

The Latino bites his knuckle to hide the growing smirk. “I’ll have to tell him that. He wants to major in poli-sci at college.”

Clay scoffs, but Tony can’t get a read on him. 

“I know you didn’t call me in the middle of the night to talk about my boyfriend.”

“Maybe I did,” and Clay’s got this certainty, a challenge, glinting in his voice. Tony sees right through it. “Okay, maybe I wanted to talk about you.”

Tony’s eyebrows skip toward his hairline. “I like how things were built to last.” He strokes the dashboard, his hand painted blue in the moonlight. “This girl’s older than my old man, and she still purrs so pretty.”

“That’s ‘cause you take care of her,”

Tony hums in agreement. “I like how they’re stable. How they’ve been around so long, but they’re still here. I can count on them.”

“Like I can count on you,”

“Yeah, just like that.”

They cruise around these streets that Tony knows all too well until they're back out front of Clay's house again, idling by the curb. Tony wants to keep him in a little longer, but Clay looks like he's doing okay, or at least better than he was. 

“Thank you. For tonight- this morning- whatever,”

Tony stifled a yawn. “Always, Clay.”

He half expects a hug that never comes. Clay climbs out of the car and with a small wave he turns back to his house and heads to the front door. 

Tony pulls away from the curb with a four finger wave over the steering wheel watching Clay go. 

The sun's just starting to peer over the horizon, pale pink tingeing the edges of the skyline. Tony rubs a hand over weary eyes and drives on, resigned to the fact he won't be getting any more sleep tonight. 

* * *

Clay calls him again a few nights later, but this time he can't make it out the door. 

Tony climbs up to his bedroom window, and finds it thankfully unlocked. "Hey." He pauses, half straddling the window frame and taking in the sight. 

"Hey," Clay says from where he's sitting on his bed, his covers wrapped around his shoulders. Tear tracks line his cheeks. 

Tony crossed the room swiftly and sits on the edge of the bed beside Clay, not touching. "You okay?" he asks, and it's the dumbest thing he could say in the moment, but it's said, so he lets the words hang in the cool air of Clay's bedroom. 

"No, not really." And then Clay leans in, tears streaming down his face once more. 

So Tony holds him, just holds him, and it's like he's the only thing keeping him together. 

Clay whimpers, head resting in Tony's chest, like Tony's heartbeat is a lifeline. 

* * *

It happens again, and again, with regular irregularity. It helps, so why does it matter? Tony’s arms, Tony’s heartbeat, Tony’s compassion: all strong enough to keep Clay whole. Sometimes he cries. Sometimes he doesn't. Tony never mentions it, just lets Clay in close and doesn't let go. And it’s enough, for Clay. Until it isn’t.

And Tony’s there. Always there. Arms wrapped tight around the scrawny mess of a boy pressed against his chest. He tucks Clay’s head under his chin, giving him as much contact as possible. His heartbeat feels thunderous, his pulse racing in his teeth. Another sob escapes past the prison bars of Clay’s lips.

"You're okay," Tony says, holding him close, but it's not enough. Clay tells him that with his next broken sob. 

“Tell me what you need,  _ nene,"  _ Tony pleads, feeling more and more helpless by the minute. 

Clays fingers dig into Tony's sides like he's trying to get closer to Tony, closer than possible. "I need to feel something," he sobs into Tony's chest, sounding as wrecked as Tony feels.

He lays them down onto the bed: Tony on his back and Clay clinging to his left side, head atop Tony's chest.    


Tony's muttering sweet nothings, but Clay's still feverish, quivering with ever choked breath. 

Tony pulls him closer, accidently jostling him. He whimpers, and Tony's almost certain he's hurt, until he feels something growing against his hip bone. Neurons fire and formulate an illicit plan. He acts before he can back down, gyrating his hip just so. Clay mewls so prettily, clutching at Tony's shirt. He ducks away, reddened face pressed, out of sight, into Tony's armpit, yet he makes no move to distance himself from the older boy. 

"Shhhh, baby boy. I've got you." His left hand reaches to stroke through Clay's hair, while his right snakes down Clay's quaking stomach. It stops just above the waistband of Clay's jeans, waiting. "Is this okay?"   


Clay's hips jut forward, "please."   


"Clay."   


"Yes," he hisses, lips fluttering against Tony's throat.    


Tony slips his hand over the bulge in Clay's jeans, inwardly preening at the sounds the other boy makes. He's going to hell, he's so going to hell.    


He glances to the nightstand. "Do you have some-"   


"No-I mean, just... Like this. Please." The harsh friction against his cock bites of reality; it's just what he needs.   


Tony cringes, recalling the raw feeling of an unlubed hand job, but complies. He'll do anything Clay asks, that much is evident. He strokes him loosely beneath his underwear, already dampened with precum. Clay’s hips buck forward with a haphazard rhythm. 

“You're okay. I'm here, I've got you.”

Clay whines into Tony's throat as he climaxes, and it's the prettiest sound Tony's heard. 

Achingly hard, he runs his hand down his own stomach, hoping Clay won't see. He rubs himself a few times over his jeans and he comes tragically quick. He feels dirty, wrong, and then the guilt creeps in. Clay's still panting against his jugular. 

"Tony, I-" he reaches blindly for the front of Tony's jeans. The shorter boy can't help but smile, only Clay Jensen...   


But not tonight. "No," he swats the drowsy hand away from where the mess in his pants is beginning to cool, "get some sleep,  _ nene _ ." 

Clay nods sagely, like Tony had imparted some great wisdom unto him. He rolls over 

Tony slides out from under Clay, who grumbles something unintelligible into his pillow. The blankets are tangled around Clay's ankles, and Tony tucks the boy in like he's done too many times before. He strokes Clay's cheek, pressing a kiss to the scar on the sleeping boy's forehead, before slipping from the room.    


* * *

“Tony…” Mr Jensen stops him before he can make it to the front door. Tony knows how this must look. Hair disheveled, a weird stain at the bottom of his shirt, sneaking out Clay’s room at some unmentionable hour. And yeah, he smells like cum. It doesn't look good. 

He rubs the back of his neck. “Hey, Mr Jensen. Sorry to wake you. I-“

“Is everything okay?”

It's kind natured, unaccusing, just drenched in concern. Tony finally meets his eyes. “Yeah, I-uh.” He takes a deep breath. “Clay’s not been doing too good. Not sleeping too good.”

He watches Mr Jensen’s face crumple a little bit further around the corners.

“I got him to sleep, finally,” and he politely skims over the ‘how’, “but uh, check on him in the morning for me.”

“Of course,” he smiles shakily, and it’s something, at least.

They nod, in a bro-ish kind of way, and Tony makes to leave.

“You’re a good man, Tony,” Mr Jensen says, before going back to bed.

Tony wishes he could believe that. He shakes his head, lips wavering, and heads out the door.

* * *

Brad takes it just as well as Tony had expected. He cries, he yells, he screeches and all the other synonyms Tony can think of, and by the time Brad storms out of Monet’s, Tony’s got a glass of complimentary water dripping from his face. Skye, behind the counter, only glares in his direction. He deserves it, he tells himself, but he doesn’t care. Clay is okay and that’s all that matters. He knows it’s a little bit fucked (well, a lot fucked). He knows he’s a little bit fucked, too. And he thinks back to last night, Clay pressed against him like his best dream and worst nightmare all wrapped up in one.

He bites the inside of his cheek and stares dejectedly at his untouched bagel in front of him. Guilt seems to be the only thing he can stomach this morning. 

He’s got three messages from Clay since he snuck out last night. Tony hasn’t the heart to read them.

He manages to ignore Clay for the whole day at school. Almost. After the last bell sounds, he makes a run for it, but as he turns to the parking lot, he spots a lanky brunette leaning against his ride.

“Clay,” he says with a nod as he makes his way over to the driver’s side, “need a ride home?”

“Actually, I was hoping we could go for a drive?”

Tony waits and weighs out the moment. There's no denying him. “Sure. I know a place.”

Clay beams in that optimistic puppy-dog way of his and slides into the passenger seat.

They make it to the rock that Tony's starting to think about as Their Rock and the silence might have been peaceful if Tony couldn't hear the cogs turning in Clay's mind. 

“Tony, can we talk?”

_ No no no n-  _ “Sure.” His words betray him. They always do around Clay. 

"I spoke to my parents this morning, about the- about everything. I'm going to start seeing my therapist again."   


"That's great, Clay.” Tony stumbles over his words and emotional baggage. There's a sincerity, though, and Clay latches onto it.

“Look, about the other night…”

“We don’t have to talk about it.”

Clay takes a deep breath, galvanizing himself. “It can’t happen again. I mean, you have Brad-“

“We- uh, we broke up.”

“Wha-when?”

“This morning.”  _ The moment my hand touched your dick _ ; he bites his tongue to keep the words trapped inside.

“Was it because of me?”

What a dumb question. Tony barely refrains from rolling his eyes. “I couldn’t lie to him.” Of all the crap he pulled, he at least owes Brad some honesty.

“I-I can talk to him. Tell him you were just-”

“Just what, Clay? ‘Yeah, Brad, I came in my pants while I got Clay off, but it’s okay because he’s just going through some stuff at the moment.’” 

Clay recoils at his words. His ears glow red. Tony wants to bite them.

“You were looking after me.”

Tony smiles like black coffee: heated and bitter. 

“There were a million different ways I could have helped that didn’t involve your dick, that didn’t involve fucking over either you or Brad.”

“I’m sorry.” He’s all choked up. Tony wants to reach out, tell him  _ no, don’t be sorry, never be sorry about that. _ He looks away as Clay whispers, “you don’t have to keep looking after me.”

He can feel Clay’s eyes searching his face. “What if,” Tony presses his lips together and turns to face Clay, “what if I don’t care? What if I want to? What if I want to keep looking after you, no matter what?”

Clay’s stupid, beautiful face scrunches in confusion, and if it wasn’t such an emotionally charged moment, Tony would have laughed.

“That’s it, Clay. That’s the thing. I’d do anything for you, and it’s like no one else matters. Or I can’t bring myself to care if they do. I had the most caring, genuine boyfriend, and I threw that away because you needed me. Because you wanted me. That's not what people do.”

“What if I liked it?"

Tony snorts. “Of course you fucking did, idiot. Who wouldn’t?” And he knows he's good with his hands, in more ways than one. 

Clay flushes again, all pretty and pink. “No, I-I liked it. A lot. With you, specifically. And I’d like to do it again sometime when I’m not out of my mind.” His words are too jumbled and his smile’s much too hopeful.

“Clay,” Tony’s voice lowers another octave, “don’t do this.”

“Why?” 

The indignant challenge makes Tony ache and Tony can feel his resolve slipping away. “You know why.” Who’s he kidding? It’s not like he has any resolve when it comes to Clay, anyway. “Because I'd do anything you ask. Because it's always  _ you _ .”

"Tony," Clay says, "I'm sorry. I-"

"This isn't your fault."

Clay chuckles lowly. "You're doing it again. I don't know what to say. If I say I don't want you, I'm lying, but if I say I do, I'm using you."

Tony's trying and failing not to lose it at the thought of Clay wanting him, not just needing him. "Let me take care of you," he says and it sounds like a plea. Maybe it is. 

Clay nods, lets himself be gathered to Tony's chest like so many times before. 

_ FIN _


End file.
